The Cummings Report

by Christopher Hodder-Williams

“Thank you very much! I can see that your requirements of character are very exacting. However, I am afraid you haven’t even begun to satisfy me. For instance, who are you? What is this ‘department’ you speak of? How and why did you start investigating me?”

  He sipped some tea and placed the cup back in the saucer with precision. “Mr. Cummings,” he said, “if you keep asking me questions I shall only have to go on repeating myself. The whole point is, if you work it out, that there is no need for me to say anything more at all. I am going in a few moments, and I know that curiosity alone will persuade you to do what I ask. You have only to sit here and finish your tea, and keep your eyes and ears open.”

  “Supposing I do notice something?” I said. “I take it you want me to communicate with you about it. And I certainly shan’t do that without being given a lot more information.”

  “You are wrong once again,” he said. “I require nothing further of you. If youdo find out something, I hope you will act according to your own judgment — either by going to the police or anyone else you think fit. Whatever you do, I know that the free people of a certain country will be duly grateful. I must leave you now; allow me to settle the bill.”

  More people were drifting in now, and I studied the customers idly, rather as one inspects the other guests at a dull cocktail party.

  They were a pretty mixed bunch. Mother and father taking the boy, aged four, to see his very first cartoon film. A couple of teenagers — boy and girl — with time on their hands. Two middle-aged cronies — sisters perhaps — just walked in. They were probably in town for a day’s shopping. A business man, complete with the usual battered brief-case, his head buried in the pinkness of theFinancial Times. And there they all sat, totally unconnected entities, all waiting — for what? Not, I was inclined to think, for my toupéed friend’s secret messages ...

  I poured myself another cup of tea, and sat there thinking of nothing in particular. The two cronies were discussing things of no account with the utmost seriousness.

  “... so I said to him: ‘Don’t you bargeme!’ I said.” (The black pillbox hat with the red feather was talking.) “Can youbelieveanyone being so rude? Some of these people —well! Where on earth are they brought up, I should like to know?”

  “Tt! Tt !” replied the spectacled one. “Where indeed !”

  “And that isn’t all, either!” exclaimed Black Hat, warming to her subject. “When we got on the number 22 bus he nearly pushed me off the platform.”

  “No! On the 22 bus?”

  Spectacles seemed to be something of a ‘feed’ — repeating every line so the Comic could get the maximum effect. While Black Hat continued her horrifying story my interest strayed to some of the other customers. The business man was obviously quite oblivious of the perils of travelling on a 22 bus — probably he had never been on a bus at all.

  The teenagers were sipping Coca-Cola through straws. They were silent at the moment, looking dreamily into each other’s eyes. I put in the sugar: one, two lumps.

  The family were quiet for the moment, too.

  “... of course, the conductor was charming.Charming, my dear! Quite a young man; not a day over thirty-four, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  “Thirty-four?” repeated Spectacles. It was becoming more and more like a music-hall routine.

  “Yes, Gertrude. Idolike conductors, don’t you? But this one wasparticularlynice. When we got to Tottenham Court Road he helped me offso politely!”

  “Tt! Tt! Tottenham Court Road — fancy that!” said Gertrude.

  I lost interest in the monotonous duologue; and eventually they left, still chatting about the polite conductor on the 22 bus. He had obviously made a big impression.

  I sat there sipping my tea and nibbling toast. The teleprinter clicked busily away, and faintly through the double doors I could hear the sound-track of some comedy film or other.

  I was right about the business man. He got up, paid his bill, and wandered over to the teleprinter. He spent quite some time there, leafing through the sheets that were hanging up on paper-clips, as well as inspecting the one still in the machine. Every now and then, as a new patron entered the cinema itself, the sound would grow loud for a moment as the girl swung the door open. The business man left; and by the time I had paid my bill the family of three were leaving too, chatting away noisily now as they clattered up the stairs.

  I decided to sample the antics of Donald Duck Esquire, and choosing a seat half-way down the stalls I prepared myself for the fun.

  I had been sitting there for three-quarters of an hour before I realized that the22 bus does not go to Tottenham Court Road. Now, Gertrude and her friend of the fabulous black hat really ought to have known better ...

  CHAPTER 3

  DONALD DUCK was in dreadful trouble with a motor-car that had a mind of its own. But I was amusing myself with the problem of the innocent conversation between the old cronies. As I reconstructed it in my mind, several interesting facts emerged.

  In the first place, the only phrases which Spectacles (Gertrude) repeated were those containing figures or significant facts: the number 22 bus, the conductor not a day over thirty-four and Tottenham Court Road.

  Then there was the fact that they chose a moment when there was no other conversation going on around them, as if they wanted to make quite sure they could be heard clearly — the teenagers gazing soulfully in each other’s eyes; the business man quietly contemplating his next swoop on the Stock Exchange; the family trio who were too terrified to utter in a public place ...

  Supposing I was right, and the conversation was deliberately intended to be overheard? Let’s see. The possibility that it was intended for me was unlikely. The message was too cryptic, and therefore could only be interpreted by somebody who had the key — someone who was sitting there with the express purpose of hearing it. I could rule out the teenagers, too. And the waitresses were moving about too much to be able to pick up much of the conversation. That left the family of three, and the business man.

  At first sight, the business man appeared to be the more likely candidate, except for the fact that he took the trouble to read the teleprinter news-sheetsafter the two cronies had departed. If he was acting a part, he certainly showed exemplary attention to detail, and did not mind wasting valuable time; for if one receives an important message one’s first instinct is surely to go away and do something about it.

  The family group, however, were not entirely in character. Now I came to think of it, they weretoo quiet. Junior was not even allowed to stir his tea; indeed, it is almost impossible to keep a child quiet on a special outing, except by dint of the most terrible threats — unless the child was used to this kind of thing. Then again, after the cronies had left, they all burst into merry conversation again. Well, you could argue the thing both ways.

  Putting myself in the position of an individual who wanted to communicate something to another individual, it would be difficult to imagine a more discreet way of doing it than to employ a couple of middle-aged ladies to do the talking, and an innocent, dumb-looking threesome up from the suburbs, like the mother, father and son in question to do the listening. Allowing for the fact that the inaccuracy about the route of the number 22 bus would have passed with ninety-nine people out of a hundred as a natural slip (the number 19 bus, whose route is similar up to Cambridge Circus, might well be the one they meant) the conversation would not, in any other circumstances, have given rise to suspicion.

  I felt angry with myself for allowing the man with the toupée to influence me so. Yet, however much it irritated me, the discrepancy was there; several times, loudly and persistently, the false statement had been made.

  The newsreel came to an end, and a tattered piece of film offering some brand of orange drink indicated that I had seen the programme round.

  *

  The telephone was ringing when I entered the flat. It was Alice.

  “Tell me to go to Hell,” she said, “I’m weakening.”

&
nbsp; “Go to Hell,” I obliged.

  “You’re tougher than you used to be.” A pause. “Joel, let’s have a coffee; there can’t be any harm in that! Every body has coffee.”

  “All except us,” I said firmly.

  “I think I preferred you when you were a nervous wreck,” she complained. “At least you were human.”

  “Alice,” I said patiently, “go and get a job! And keep your mind on the finer things.”

  “I already have a job!” she countered. “In fact, I’m speaking from the office.”

  “Where is your office?” I asked. “As a matter of fact, there’s something I want to talk to you about.”

  “That’s better.”

  I spoke seriously. “Alice, I don’t think you really believe me, do you? I mean, about being — as the Americans say — ‘through’.”

  “Joel dear, if I want to make a fool of myself, will you please let me go ahead and do it? Anyway, don’t worry. If I can be a help to you I’d like to. I’m quite civilized really, you know.”

  “Good. What’s the address?”

  *

  She had an office off Victoria Street, in one of those crumby, sour-smelling streets that deceive you into thinking that only crumby people work there.

  I was surprised to find an official government commissionaire on the door. He was a real commissionaire too, with a great row of medals — not like the young chap at my block of flats, who wouldn’t have recognized theDefence Medal if he saw it.

  “Whom do you wish to see?” he demanded, in official government English.

  “Mrs. Cramner,” I said.

  His chest swelled dangerously. “We have no Mrs. Cramner here.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said apprehensively, almost expecting a whole squad of commissionaires to march me away. “I mean Miss Redgate — Miss Alice Redgate.”

  There was still considerable menace in that weatherbeaten face. ‘Cramner’ did not sound very much like ‘Redgate’. “You see,” I added, “Cramner is — was — her married name.”

  He did not reply to this. But after a considerable pause he swung round with his back to me and walked through the doorway. I followed meekly.

  “Sign this, sir,” he commanded, producing a buff-coloured form. “And hand it to me when you leave.” He implied the sooner the better. I signed obediently.

  “Room 371, third floor.” There was a large lift, but he didn’t offer to take me up in it. Evidently people who got people’s names wrong had to use the stairs.

  I eventually arrived at the correct door, and knocked rather timidly. A stenographer, type 3(b), poked her head round the door and smiled (welcoming, type 17, unofficial guests, for the use of). “Please come in,” she said brightly. I followed her into a sort of outer office, then through a further door which led into a surprisingly pleasant room. Alice greeted me from behind a small and rather feminine-looking desk (her own import, I suspected). There were flowers on the window-sill, and, at first sight, only one telephone.

  The stenographer-type-3(b)’s name was Jill, Alice told me. And Jill, still smiling, retreated into the outer office. I sat down, feeling rather out of place, in a severe, steel-tube chair.

  “How long,” I demanded, “have you been a V.I.P.?”

  Alice pushed a silver cigarette-box towards me. “I’m hardly a V.I.P.,” she said. “But I’ve been here for over a year now.”

  All this was news to me. Alice had mentioned nothing about it on her visits to Murtha House, which I thought rather strange — Alice is not the sort of person to hide her light under a bushel.

  Jill came in with a tray of tea. Even that had undergone a severe overhaul. No cracked, railway-type cups on rickety saucers for her; but instead rather an elegant, pink-coloured tea set with some very un-governmental fancy cakes on a silver-plated dish.

  For that matter, Jill, on close inspection, was far from undecorative. She was young and pretty and knew it, but not in a way that could give offence. Alice had chosen her cleverly (if indeed she had chosen her), for she enhanced the surroundings without taking away from her boss’s charm. Jill was young and pretty: Alice was beautiful and mature.

  She was also quite aware that I was inspecting the competition. When Jill’s singularly pleasing person had disappeared once again into the outer office, Alice remarked: “It’s a good thing I’m not trying any more! It would bring out my nastiest jealous streak. As it is, I think it would be a very good idea.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She poured out the tea. “I mean, you poor ass, if you took her out.”

  “I have no intention of taking her out.”

  “Maybe not. But you will. I shall encourage it; she’s just what you need. She’s a nice kid, and you’d be good for her.”

  I couldn’t help laughing. “This is a brand-new role for you,” I observed.

  “It’s nevertheless sincere. Now don’t look a gift horse in the mouth! She’s pretty and you know it. So you will report to my flat at six-thirty tonight and make eyes at her.”

  “And if she doesn’t like it?”

  “Darling Joel; such humility ill-becomes you! And now perhaps you’ll be good enough to tell me what’s on your mind; because I have some work to do.”

  *

  Alice was a good listener. Now that there was nothing emotional involved I could see that we were going to get on very well. I told her every detail I could remember, and how it wasn’t until it was much too late to follow it up that I realized the bit about the 22 bus. She heard me out, and then asked a few pertinent questions.

  “Could you describe the Business Man?”

  “He was of medium height,” I said, “dark hair and a moustache. Wore spectacles. Slightly bent nose, as if he had broken it at some time or other. Black, city-type coat, well cut; bowler hat, rolled umbrella and brown briefcase.”

  “Did you hear him speak?”

  “Yes, when he paid his bill. English-gentleman sort of voice; rather deep.”

  “What about the father of the boy?”

  “Nondescript. But I remember he was of medium height also, though rather broader than the other fellow; and had ginger hair.”

  “I see. You seem to have noticed quite a lot of detail.”

  “I had nothing else to do.”

  I found it hard to adjust myself to the new Alice. I was being interrogated professionally. I hadn’t imagined the interview going along these lines at all.

  Alice rang, and the girl appeared almost before Alice had taken her finger off the button. I couldn’t help feeling a certain pleasant anticipation at the prospect of the evening’s coming events. For one reason and another, it was a long time since I had taken a pretty girl out. The schoolboy in me was once again uppermost.

  “Take the things away, Jill, please,” instructed Alice. “You’re all right for tonight?”

  “Yes, thank you, Miss Redgate. Six-thirty. I’ll be there.”

  She disappeared with the tray, and I must say I felt rather embarrassed. It all seemed such a put-up job. I had been vetted, and found to be at least good enough for an evening out. I also realized something else.

  “Have you been talking to Jeff today?” I asked accusingly.

  “Well ...”

  I felt unaccountably angry. “You may or may not believe it,” I said, “but I’m quite capable of looking after my own love life. Perhaps you thought youowed me something?”

  “Joel, keep your voice down.”

  “Must do something to help the invalid! Feeling guilty at having mucked me up before. I suppose you arranged this whole thing beforehand. Even that phone call was a fake.”

  Her eyes were glinting dangerously now. “All right, call it a fake if you like. Idid speak to Jeff — or, to be more accurate, he spoke to me. So I thought I’d try and do something for you, for once — since I’m always being told I’m so selfish. Now, do you want to cancel Jill tonight?”

  “Yes,” I snapped. But I hated myself for saying it.


  Alice tore her hands through her hair for a moment, but when she spoke she was calmer. “Look, Joel,” she said, “can’t you see that I wanted tohelp you, just for a change? Is there anything wrong in that? All right; I was clumsy about it. I’m not much of a diplomat. But please don’t spoil tonight. Apart from anything else, you’ll hurt this little girl’s feelings, if you turn her down. She’ll think you don’t like her, or something. Oh, I don’t know ...”

  Alice was close to tears. I knew how she felt. I remembered howI felt when Alice told me about her plans with Richard; how I felt in Murtha House the day she married him. I just wished she hadn’t turned into a sort of female Knight Errant — it didn’t suit her, and I found it acutely embarrassing.

  “Darling,” she was saying, “do you think I’llever manage to do anything without making a complete hash of it?”

  I took her hand. “This is the first time you have ever genuinely tried to do something for anyone else — at least that I know of!” I said. “Maybe it won’t be such a failure.”

  “Excuse me, Joel dear, will you?” said Alice, abruptly, “I must go and do something about my face.”

  She hustled herself rather rapidly out of the room. Poor Alice! She had looked so official, and so much in possession of herself when I had arrived.

  Alice came back in after five minutes or so. “Joel,” she said, pointedly refraining from any mention of her lapse, “about this incident in the café; supposing I told you that I thought you imagined the whole thing?”

  “I would be inclined to think you might well be right,” I replied carefully. I knew that too passionate belief in my story would reduce its credibility considerably. I had to make her believe in it almost more firmly than I did. “At the same time,” I added, “I told you, particularly, because you are one of the few people who would listen at all.”

  “Is that the only reason you came to me?”

  “Yes, of course,” I said. “What are you getting at?”

  She ignored this. “Nothing to do with my job?”

  “I didn’t even know you had a job,” I declared impatiently. “What is your job, anyway? Are you Olga, the Master Spy?”